


Men of Kings

by LittleMissGriff



Category: Song of the Lioness - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissGriff/pseuds/LittleMissGriff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a king, Jon depends on George for experience; as a man, he depends on much more.</p><p>Set in the early years of Jon's kingship, post-SOTL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gulch Gin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Goldenlakes Decathlon Challenge! Ten Prompts, ten snippets, one pairing.
> 
> 1\. 100w dash: Gulch Gin  
> 2\. 110w hurdles (Must not use any names): Study of Want  
> 3\. 400w dash: Drowning Johnny  
> 4\. 4x100w relay (sins):Confessions of King George  
> 5\. 1500w dash: Blessing the Coward King  
> 6\. Single sentence shot put: Weighing Kings  
> 7\. AU pole vault: Ugly Duckling and the Swan  
> 8\. Humour high jump: Right of the King  
> 9\. Love long jump: Goodly, Jon  
> 10\. Donkey Discus: Questions for a Changing Time

“I have something for you.” George stepped into the garden with solemn reverence, pausing before Queen Lianne's favorite rosebush. It was a delicate yellow, with soft thorns and tiny leaves.

It reminded Jon very much of his mother.

“A surprise from my spy-master?” Jon smiled, “I'm not sure I trust it.”

“Thankfully not,” George laughed in return. “A gift, for a new father.”

With a gracious sigh, Jon agreed, “I could do with more of those.”

George passed the bottle of horrific Gulch Gin over without aplomb. “Just don't drink it without me.”


	2. Study of Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Jonathan, being along with George is a study of want

It was in the quiet comfort of his study, where they'd share the sheaf of papers, that it began. The lick of air tickling the nape of his neck as the hardened hands leaned over his tight shoulder and pulled one sheet away from the others. The heat would last long after he was alone again, nothing but the troubling memories of green eyes shuttered in sharp focus to chase the want from his finger tips. As king, as a husband, he could never entertaining the idea of turning and touching. As a friend, he could never betray that trust. But, as a man, there was little else he wanted.


	3. Drowning Johnny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Johnny's drowning in King Jonathan.

“You're drunk,” George said, voice heavy with sleep and disapproval.

“I drank it without you,” Jon snapped belligerently.

He stood in the hall, tunic long gone with his belt, feet bare, trouser rumbled as his shirt, and George was not impressed. “Go to bed, Jonathan.”

Jon responded with a petulant jaw and stubborn glare.

Sighing at the helpless realization he wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon, George closed his eyes and dropped his head against the open door. “Jonathan, you're tired, drunk, and have a lovely wife at home. I have a lovely wife. Do us both a favor and humiliate yourself somewhere else, quietly, where no one can hear you demand sexual favors from your nobility.

“Let me in,” Jonathan insisted, an angry flush brushing his cheeks.

“Why?” George snapped sharply, “So you can have your fun and ruin the good things the gods sought to give us? I've had too few of them to waste on your self-indulgent fancies, Your Majesty.”

“That's all I am,” Jon cried, “A pretty face under a gaudy hat, primped and polished and polite. I can't talk anymore, not with my own mind; or walk where I will. I can't even even stand in the halls and make a fool of myself anymore, because I'm 'Your Majesty'.”

He pressed forward plaintively his hand against the door, “I'm always 'Your Majesty'.” Jon shook his head, “I just want to be Johnny.”

The angry tension seeped from his shoulder as George pulled his friend close and rested their foreheads together. “I know,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Jon's hair, “But Johnny never had this.”

“Can't I?” Jon pleaded, “Please.”

“Mithros' sake, I wish I could,” George tugged lightly on the helpless black strands, “But it's too late for that. I'm not a king anymore; I have rules I have to live by, and so do you.”

“So I'm lost, then?” He shuddered, wrapping his arms around George's chest. “Good as dead.”

“Go to sleep, lad,” George whispered, pushing him away. “We'll talk in the morning.”

“I won't be there,” Jon said darkly, “Just a pretty smile and a crown.”

He looked away and closed the door, leaning against it with a heavy heart. “I know, Johnny.”


	4. Confessions of King George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man like George has his secrets.

****

Envy

For many years, George envied Jonathan. He envied, first and foremost, Alanna's love. It was a simple and obvious pain that he countered with his fondness for the prince and the knowledge he had the patience to lose the battle and win the war. That was still enough to seed the bitter taste of jealousy behind his tongue and it grew into a choking weed. He envied Jonathan's worth, he envied his prospects, but the deepest itch was his dark envy for a father, one who loved him enough to share his name. That was one thing George couldn't steal.

 **Greed**

George refuses to hide Jon from the world, because he knows he wouldn't give him back. He tried it, once, when Jonathan was prince. The long nights would melt into day, and they spend the time talking over politics or fighting over morality. Every time, it was Jon who stood and left, citing one royal responsibility or another. But now, Jon wanted to leave it all behind and George knew with a haunting certainty that the day they faded back into their own little world, they were never coming back. Too many people owned pieces of Jon; George didn't share.

 **Pride**

George takes pride in his king, not for Jonathan's accomplishments, but for his own. Jonathan was his creation, built over long nights of breaking noble arrogance. He led him into a world built on more than blood and names in golden books. It was a world built on the shoulders of men; with all their clever cruelties and endless mercy. Jonathan never wanted to continue his father's reign, but the future, what he wanted in exchange, was an empty school boy's dream, formless, until George took his hand. George is the one man who can truly call Jonathan, 'My King'.

 **Lust**

George has an appreciation for fine things. He's not a man to waste himself on uselessness, but an efficient model of good quality always caught his eye.

There are few men of better quality than Jon.

A pretty face was common, but Jonathan burned. It was the light in his eyes, magic and intrigue pressed against the windows of his soul, commanding the strong sinew in his arms, twisting his fingers as he ran a solitary tip over his pursed lips. Those lips held fire, too, the scalding ire of tantrums George longed to snuff with lips of his own.


	5. Blessing the Coward King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan hides behind his crown; George takes offense.

In the morning, I found Jon waiting for me in his study. He stood in front of the fire with the window open, cold chill pressing against his back while the flames kept the baby warm on his shoulder. I wondered for a moment if he'd taken the baby for the morning to keep me at bay, but I wasn't the one who needed the distance.

I closed the door with a pointed snap and the line of his shoulders melted, shifting seamlessly from tense thoughtfulness into a loose courtier's gait. I hated when he treated me like a well-bred fool.

“George,” He smiled, teeth bare and pleasant. It was empty.

I sighed “Jon,” I began, but he cut me off with a hand.

“Let me apologize,” he said airily. “I was a fool and I am sorry to have put you in such a position. I was obviously overwhelmed – a mistake I'll see to sooner, in the future.”

As far as Jon was concerned, that was that.

He absolutely brought Roald with him as a shield, I decided, the bastard knew I'd strangle him, otherwise. “Jon,” I snapped, crossing my arms stubbornly. “Apologies, I'll take. Treating me like I haven't the sense Mithros gave a three-eyed goat, I won't. You want to tell my you're sorry, wear your own face when you do it.”

“George,” Jonathan sighed, as if I were the one who'd broken a twelve year silence over a bottle of bad liquor. “I'm trying to make amends.”

“Jon,” I wielded his name sharply, “I told you we'd talk in the morning.”

“And so we are,” he assured me, but he met my eyes and I saw the message in them.

I won't be there, he'd promised, Just a pretty smile and a crown.

Roald mewled, drooling bubbles in his father's shoulder. Jonathan's face softened and he turned away, pressing his cheek to the downy hair. He hummed. For those brief moments, he looked like himself.

I realized the baby wasn't for me at all.

“You're a coward, Jonathan of Contè,” feeling the weight of my sleepless night, “hiding behind masks and babies and liquor bottles.”

“I know,” Jon mumbled into his son's body. “I am sorry”

He was lying and I knew it. Furious, I called him out, “No, you aren't!”

“Fine,” He yelled, finally turning around. “I'm not. I don't mean it, not at all, but I want to. I'm a selfish coward, you said so yourself. If I can't be a good man, the least I can do is pretend I am.”

“And what happens when I let you,” I snarled. “What happens when I let you pretend?”

“I disappear,” Jon said simply.

I ground my teeth and waited.

“I was raised to believe one day I'd have everything. I'd be able to change to the world and, in return, all I had to do was 'Do the Right Thing',” He rubbed Roald's back with a self-deprecating grin. “Only, it ends up I can't do a bloody thing.”

“That's a horse's arse talking and you know it.”

“Is it?” He laughed mirthlessly, “You and I, we used to discuss all the things I would change when I was king. Well, here I am. Tell me one thing I've done to change Tortall. Just one. Something that isn't giving the city council funds to reconstruct the sewers or changing a lady's punishment for bedding out of wedlock – That was a nasty one on paper, but not even the conservatives still stoned their daughters.”

Jon took his silence as permission, “I want so much. I love Thayet, but I still want more. I love Alanna and I know I've lost her. I love you and you're something I shouldn't even try! I want it all and I've done nothing to deserve it. That's the sort of man I am.”

“What about Roger,” I raised reasonably.

“What about him,” he sneered.

“You killed him.”

Jon laughed again, kicking a chair towards the fire so he could set Roald on his lap. “No. Alanna killed Roger. Twice, even.”

“You kept him from destroying Tortall.”

“I barely kept him from dumping a chapel on my head!” Jon pointed out his window, accusingly. “Look at my people going hungry in the streets. Look at the empty farmland. Look! And tell me Tortall isn't in ruins as surely as if he'd lived. I saved myself at the cost of my people. I'm worse than he is.”

I waited a pause. “Are you finished,” I snapped, digging my fingers hard into my arms, fighting back my temper. “I wouldn't want to go ruining your perfectly ridiculous wallow in self-loathing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, shove off, Johnny,” I roared, startling the baby. “You aren't a god.”

He drew himself up, one careful hand on the baby, and snipped, “Well, obviously.”

“I think I've reached the end of your ego, only to turn around discover more,” I dug. “Tortall is still standing – at a price, but she lives. Corus has broken streets, but happy people. Your court is full of men – good and bad – all as stubborn as you are, but no, you're Jonathan. That means your power is absolute. If you were really in a position to change the world, all you'd have to do is wave your hand and the world would kiss your feet for being so gracious to notice them.”

“That's not fair - “

“Shut up.” I glared, “I'm not through.”

He slumped back and glared.

“Amazingly, your charm is not undeniable. Not everyone looks in your pretty blue eyes and falls in love with you. It takes more than perfectly coiffed hair to run a kingdom.” I wanted to smack that prissy indignant look right off his face, but I paced instead, running a hand through my hair with a tug. “It's not magic,” I pleaded with him, stopping at his knees. “It takes work, Jon. It takes more work than I can tell. You want change? You have to make men angry. You have to let them curse you. And you're right. Sometimes, you have to let them keep their rules. That's what being a king is: outsmarting smart men to get what you want.”

I knelt and brushed a stroke down the baby's heaving back, winking into curious blue eyes. I gave his father a crooked smile, “You're hiding,” I said again, “Because you're afraid to try. I know it's frightening to reach out with all you are and know you'll fail, but Jon,” I wrapped my hands around his, “Johnny, that's what earns kings the right to take whatever they want. You have to risk yourself.”

I shook my head and chuckled, “Besides, the Gods gave you that insufferable ego for a reason. If you can't bully conservatives, what good is it?”

Jon snorted, cheeks twitching as he fought back a smile. I grinned. Finally, he gave up and press his fingers to his lips. “How did you do it,” He asked. “Twelve years, how did you do it?”

“I grew up compromising,” I explained, “and I'm charming. If I hadn't been crooked, I would've made a rich merchant. It's natural to me as breathing.”

“Then why did you give it up?”

“Because I got tired,” I admitted. “And I finally found someone who could do it better.”

“That new Rogue's that good, then?”

“No,” I shrugged, “He's good. Loyal, too. But he's not better than me.”

“Then-”

“Mithros' sake, Jon,” I smacked him upside the head, “Don't get modest on me now.”

“Oh,” He stared at me, dumbstruck. He started to smile, almost shyly.

“Remember,” I said, serious again. “I was willing to die for you.” Jon looked away, but I caught his eyes, “I still am.”

“But you aren't willing to love me,” He snapped and guilt shadowed his face immediately, “I'm sorry -”

“No,” I sighed tiredly, “You're not.”

“I am,” he sulked, “I am, I just don't care.”

“And I do.”

It left us watching one another. I tried to find the playing field, but this wasn't a chess match. I wasn't trying to keep a secret or make one. I was left watching him; alone in his eyes with his want. He was less bitter than I expected. His eyes weren't hungry; they were lonely.

Last night's bravado was only the gin. In the light of day, Jon never would have asked.

That's how I knew it would only be a matter of time before I gave it to him.


	6. Weighing Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon weighs kings and finds one wanting.

After the Tyran Ambassador complimented his likeness to his father, Jonathan forcefully stifled the urge to wantonly sprawl across his throne and mimic a better king.


	7. Ugly Duckling and the Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS AN UNRELATED MODERN AU, FOR THE 'ALTERNATE UNIVERSE POLE JUMP' PROMPT.
> 
> That would be why is makes no sense.

George stepped out on the veranda, pulling at the bow tie on his tuxedo with a grimace. His hair was held in place with very expensive luxury gel and his nails had been scrubbed clean by a very dedicated manicurist his father had on call in the house. George couldn't feel any more out of place.

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate fine presentation, but he knew as well as the other blue bloods back in the ballroom that being a bastard son does not a noble make. George spent so much of his life pretending to be something he wasn't that it shouldn't've been hard to pull on the elitist condescension and peer down his expansive nose at the diamond studded wrinkles of the Tortallan court. He was, after all, the newly acknowledged heir to the Lord Provost.

It was harder, though, when the part wasn't a game. No matter how often he told himself their opinions didn't matter, he felt the hackles on his neck snarling every time he caught a derisive sneer or a pandering dismissal. He wasn't 'one of them' and, therefore, he wasn't anything. Just a spotty mistake the Lord Provost decided to admit. It would've been better if the man just paid for their silence and brushed the whole mess under the rug.

George spent his whole life wanting to know what his father would think of him and now he knew. His approval was a balm on the childish vulnerabilities he grew up with, but his father's world of breeding and entitlement cut him a new one for every wound that healed. Soon, he'd have more open sores than scars.

He just wanted a father. Why did his have to come with such a high price?

It was ridiculous. He was twenty-seven years old and he wasn't even allowed to storm out of a party. For his safety, of course. His father hadn't finished vetting George's personal security team, so they were sharing his expanded team until an appropriate team was assembled. Which meant George was effectively locked in this nightmare of a gilded cage until his father decided he was finished hobnobbing. It was a thousand times worse than the long Sunday afternoons with his mother's bookclub when he was a boy.

Frustrated to the point of madness, George ripped the tie off and snapped it to the ground, peeling off his dress jacket with equal vitriol. He was almost done with the buttons on his pressed shirt when a droll voice carried across the evening air, “I'm afraid I'll have to call my guard if you're about to do something dramatic.”

Canting his shoulder, George, pulled his dress shirt out from his pants and rolled his eyes, lifting it over his head. “Watch me,” He taunted at the man's shadow. Sliding his expensive leather shoes on the marble floor, George scowled and scooped up his cufflinks and began scuffing the soles with excessive glee.

“What are you doing?” His audience asked with intrigued alarm.

“Systematically destroying my monkey suit for my own satisfaction,” George snapped. “Call it a late bout of teenage rebellion. Or an early midlife crisis. Either works.”

“And then what do you plan to do with yourself?”

“Throw myself off the balcony, climb over the stupidly overdressed hedges, sneak around the sleeping soldiers watching the servant's entrance, and go get fantastically drunk somewhere else.” He stumbled a bit as he changed feet, “Feel free to join me.”

“Are you mad?”

“No,” George snorted, “I'm common. Which means I find spending my evening in this pit of vipers much like taking a tire iron to my face.”

“I thought the world of nobility was all magic and day dreams for the common man.”

“You're a snide bitch, aren't you?” George scoffed. “I'm not bloody Cinderella. I was perfectly happy with my job before Daddy decided he was shooting blanks and needed to claim the only baby he'd ever managed to spawn, accidental or otherwise.”

“So you're the Lord Provost's son,” the man said with sudden understanding. “I thought you were younger.”

“They certainly treat me that way.”

“There is a method to their madness, you know.”

“I'm sure there is,” George sighed, tossing his cufflinks aside, “but I didn't ask for it.”

“You've obviously never faced an assassination attempt. It puts things in a certain perspective.”

“Please,” George laughed, “I've been in knife fights since I was eleven. I didn't exactly grow up in the posh neighborhood.”

Silence echoed loudly.

“I'm sorry, did I shock you? Believe it or not, plenty of people face all sorts of scary things every day without Butch and the Ninja Twins watching their back.” George wanted to make some pointed comment about his listener's personal privileges, but the man managed to stand just right against the glass doors, so all George had to go on was a trim silhouette. He wasn't fat enough to be completely useless, but his athleticism was probably entirely based on a vanity regime of personal trainers and Acai berries.

“And the guards still let you in?” The man finally replied, amusingly horrified. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he wanted to cross his arms but it would wrinkle his suit.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” George chuckled. He stretched in the cool air, white undershirt the barest protection against the growing chill. It felt fantastic. “I've got nothing but scars to suggest I'm anything but a model citizen.”

“My god, you're a bloody crimelord, aren't you?”

That was.... surprisingly insightful for a man who had more caviar than braincells.

“No,” George lied. Somewhat. Badly.

“You are!” He accused hotly, “You stab people and mug tourists and lure small children into your van with puppies!”

Incredulously, George turned and stared, lying only slightly, “I think I've stabbed a man twice, but to be fair, he stabbed me first and he was very insistent about doing it again.” He rolled up his teeshirt and showed off the impressive gash along his belly. “My mother threw an absolute fit when she sewed it up. Can you imagine what she'd do to me if I started knocking about tourists in back alleys – as if tourists came into my part of town in the first place?” He paused, “And I'm not even going to touch that last one, because I'd probably just end up punching you.”

“That's illegal,” he chuckled, “I could have you beheaded, technically.”

“Why, you the king?” George rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” King Jonathan replied smugly, giving in and crossing his arms. He dripped egotistical satisfaction.

“My God,” George gawked, “You decided I was a master criminal because I'm stripping on the balcony and we rely on you to run the bloody country

“Please,” Jonathan stepped forward with a single-minded focus and immediately invaded George’s personal space and started fussing with his hair, “I'm a figurehead. All I need to know is how to repeat the very nice press releases my cabinet writes for me.”

“Stop that!” George batted at his hands.

“You stop it, you look ridiculous!” Jon countered, grabbing his hands and yanking them down ruthlessly. “You've got cowlicks in places that are entirely unnatural. And your haircut is embarrassing to look at.”

“It's fine when it hasn't been violated by thirty different wardrobe specialists in a single evening,” George groused, “And a king with no concept of personal space.”

“Stop whining. It's not like I've jammed my hands down your pants.”

And that... was not half as horrifying an idea and George liked to think it was. “Yes, well,” He pushed the king back, running a hand through his hair and ruining all of Jon's hard work. “I think I'll be going now.”

“Over the back hedge, right?”

George blinked, “Yes. How did you-”

“I've been sneaking out of these parties since I was fifteen,” Jonathan laughed, bright blue eyes sparkling with mischievous glee. “Am I still invited?”

“You realize the entire country is going to have a heart attack as soon as your bodyguards realize you're missing.”

“Probably.”

“You're a terrible king.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Jonathan smirked, “I caught this fine looking many stripping off his clothes, earlier, but I think I'll have to get him drunk before he'll take off his pants.”

And George laughed, long and sincerely for the first time in weeks. Licking his lips as he collected himself, he grinned. “I'm not so sure about that. I really hate these pants.”

“All the more reason to make sure I'm there when they come off,” Jon said with exaggerated solemnity, “I hear the buttons on those things really need a second pair of hands.”

George turned and flipped his legs over the balcony, sliding down the trellis silently. He beamed back up towards the light, “Coming?”

Jon pulled off his clothes in a rush, leaving his shirt fluttering in the wind as he set his feet carefully on the wall and eased himself down. “Which way?” Jon asked with a drugged grin.

George shrugged, “Does it matter?”


	8. Right of the King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are certain rights available only to the King.

“Are you going to do something about that,” Jon asked, valiantly hiding his smirk behind a delicate goblet of wine.

George resolutely refused to turn around, knowing the Tyran ambassador's wife was giving him openly lascivious glances. If Jon's shaking shoulders were any indication, she was giving his butt more than it's fair share of attention. If he kept hovering near the punch, he could pretend he didn't notice, “Absolutely not.”

“Come now,” Jon goaded, “What if her husband notices? It could cause an international incident.”

“Then you'll have to call my wife back from the far desolate reaches of the kingdom to defend my honor,” George grunted, “And you can explain to her why you let that harpy molest my delicate person.”

Jonathan hummed, pressing the outer edge of his goblet against his lips as he grinned, arms folded. The knuckles of his left hand were white as he dug his fingers into his right elbow. He was still, as if Jon didn't dare breathe.

George glared hatefully. It wasn't that funny. “You're a terrible man,” He gruffed sulkily, snatching away Jon's drink and downing the dregs.

“And you are still a thief, Baron Cooper,” Jon snatched his goblet back. “Can't you steal your own? You've hovered near the snacks long enough.”

“I'm hiding!”

“Yes, and that's why you wore particularly tight pants.”

George flushed, “They are hardly indecent.”

“True,” Jon tilted his head in agreement, holding out his goblet for a passing squire to fill, “But considering you tend to run around in those shabby breeches of your, you certainly look like you've dressed up for the occasion.” Jon quirked an eyebrow over George's shoulder, “Or it's guests.”

“Oh, you've caught me,” George snapped, chasing the wide eyed boy away with a glare, “I wore my very tight pants just for you, Jon, so you could take in my fetching assets. Would you like me to drop my handkerchief and give you a better view?”

Jon choked, coughing loudly.

George rolled his eyes and spared Jon's delicate clothes by taking his glass and setting it on the buffet table.

Finally, Jon regained his composure, but he paused for a long moment before asking altogether too innocently, “By the way, what was your plan if the Lady Termodge became too forward to ignore?”

“Some sly comment about what her husband would think of the matter,” George shrugged. “Why?”

“Because I think you'd best come up with another strategy.”

In horror, George spun, only to find the ambassador's heated gaze pinned to the empty space where his rear had been only moments before.

“This is going to be an interesting evening,” Jon grinned, “Very interesting.” At George's panicked look, Jon pat him sympathetically on the shoulder, “It's alright. If they get overly familiar, just remind them why you wore your very nice pants.”

“Because the formal occasion called for it,” George asked dubiously.

Jon pinned him with a heated look, “For me.”


	9. Goodly, Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Alanna wins a duel for George's honor, he decided to conclude things with Jon.

“Jonathan,” George called down the empty corridor, halting his escape with the heavy sincerity in his voice. Jon stopped regretfully, closing his eyes as he listened to the natural slap-click of shoes on stone. It was purposeful, he knew, because George was naturally silent as death. It was easy to forget the brogued listener had killed more men in his time as Rogue than Jon was likely to do in his entire reign.

“He'll live,” George announced without preamble. “Running the lad through looked impressive, but 'Lanna knows her sword. He'll be laid up for a few weeks, but she slipped around anything important. Baird is patching him up and Ambassador Termodge is all sorts of pretty shades.”

“His wife fainted,” Jon added. “On Cythera's skirts. Gary says she's livid. Apparently, she drools.” He smiled and turned, ready to continue as they always did, Jon holding back and George keeping his distance. It hadn't always been like this, but Jon knew that was his fault, too.

He was a king. Kings did not pressure married men.

“Don't start that,” George tugged his ear with sad playfulness. “You spent the morning looking positively somber to your people while you slipped rude cracks to your wife about my delicate personage. I know you enjoyed yourself.”

“I think Thayet likes you better,” Jon chuckled. "Every time she rearranged her skirts, she stomped my feet and said I was being rude.”

“I'd sympathize, but I heard you tell the court historian to chronicle the fight with me clutching Alanna's favor to my chest.”

“I thought it added a certain ambiance to the story,” Jon smirked happily at the reminder.

George rolled his eyes and sighed, clipping his arm around Jon's shoulders and he tugged them forward into a walk. “I'm confused where I supposedly gathered this favor. She never carries a kerchief, I don't think she owns a ribbon, and the only sash she wore was holding up her pants.”

“Oh, you missed that part, then,” Jon said, recounting the tale with childish enthusiasm. “The Lioness, Sir Alanna of Trebond, Olau, and Baronness of Pirate's Swoop, King's Champion under the Reign of King Jonathan the III, and his beautiful wife, Thayet jian Wilima, answered her king's call to stand forth on the field of battle to defend the honor of her husband, the brave and noble Baron Cooper; the kind-spirited common-born servant of the king who proven himself valiant despite his birth when he stood stoically among the knights of Tortall during the Tirragen and Eldorne Rebellion lead by Duke Roger, the king's own cousin, against the goodly Jonathan on the day of his coronation.”

“Goodly, Jon?” George asked, pained.

“Hush, I am very goodly. I'm goodly at chess. I'm goodly at poker. I'm goodly at mocking Lord Termodge long-winded speech as to why his comments about me and my court were entirely founded and not at all insulting and the whole mess was Alanna's womanly vapors acting up.”

“You still haven't explained what favor I wept into as Sir Kalvan's blade sang menacingly down, down, ever slowly downward– which is likely why he lost – towards my true love's heart.”

Jon smiled, feeling the shake of George's shoulders as he laughed, bright green eyes dancing merrily in his tan face. George was a beautiful man, not simply for the strength of his body and his captivating bearing, but for his humble confidence and earthly features. He was strong in himself without vanity – a skill Jon had never mastered – and because of his comfort, he cared little for impressing his appearance on anyone else. His hair was combed, but hardly stylish, his clothes were clean, but too simple for fashion. He was solid and enduring, and Jon wanted to kiss his lips because they curled into a smile without shame and his eyes crinkled without a though to age and wrinkles.

“Jon?” George stopped, watching him thoughtfully.

“Ah,” Jon shook his head, “Sorry.”

“I interrupted you,” George said without a hint of question. “You disappeared as soon as Termodge issues his formal apology. It isn't like you. You've been tense over this whole ordeal; I've noticed.”

“It's nothing, George,” Jon pushed away, separating them. “It's simply the first time I've had to issue a challenge of insult for the crown.”

“But that's exactly it, isn't it?” George challenged, allowing him his space, even as he cornered him with words. “You didn't issue a challenge of insult for the crown. You issued it for me.”

Blasted man was too bloody smart, Jon cursed, even as he knew his actions had been transparent. “I ennobled you. A question of your nobility is an insult to me, which is an insult to Tortall.”

“Except you didn't issue the challenge after he called me a fatherless street squalor.”

“Why are you pressing this, George?” Jon snapped abruptly, anger rushing through him hot and bitter. “What will it accomplish? Do you want a confession? You already have it. Do you want to hear how his blatant wanton entitlement boiled my blood, how I wanted to wield my sword myself and declare you mine? It's bloody well and good, isn't it? Here, remind me I'm a mortal man and the world doesn't bend to my whims. You do it so often, but this, reminding me I can't have this is the sharpest tool you have.”

“Stop it,” George said sharply, “You claim to love me one moment and then toss my integrity in the dirt the next. I'm worried about you, Jon, but I won't accept your sneering any more than I'll settle for Termodge's.”

“I am not-”

“Going to call me a whore as well, Jon? It would be an improvement. That would be the first insult you didn't mean.”

“Why do you do this,” Jon yelled, throwing his dignity by the wayside, letting his temper rage openly. “You call my bluff and cut me open and expect me to greet you with a polite 'Oh, thank you', as if salting my wounds is exactly the sort of pain I needed,” Jon jabbed a finger hard in his chest. “You're a better man than me, you always have been, but by all the gods, George, you are still a cruel one.”

Jon expected an tirade in return, but to his surprise, George dropped his head and said regretfully, “I don't mean to be. I worry and I can't leave well enough alone, I know. But, Jon, you're hurting and I can't stand that. I keep pretending it isn't my fault, that I can snap my fingers and solve any problem, but I can't, can I?”

Jon's anger deflated, leaving him tired and hollow as he shook his head and stepped back. “No, you can't,” he agreed.

“But,” to his shock, George caught him by the wrist and pulled him back. His green eyes were serious as he told Jon, without a hint of question, “I can fix this one, can't I?”

“George-” Jon never managed to complete his thought and, later he wouldn't remember whether he was objecting or asking, but the hot press of press cut him off and he learned there were some things a king would never learn on his own.

Jon nearly yelled when George pulled away sharply, a look of thoughtful consideration on his face. If he changed his mind, Jon was going to murder him.

Thankfully, George merely shook his head and gasped out, “Not the place.”

But, apparently, the small scribing office to their left was exactly the place. It had a convenient flat surface, plenty of empty space, and a chair, right there, for them to toss all of their clothing.

Of course, later, when Alanna appeared tired and stunned, they'd realize it didn't have a lock.


	10. Questions for a Changing Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George deals with the consequences of his actions.

George found her in their rooms, rolling the empty gin bottle in her hands. He hung in the doorway, unsure of his welcome. She stopped fidgeting, but she didn't look up. Silence stretched long into the room. George wanted to beg for forgiveness and throw himself on her mercy, but what could he say? Apologize for hurting her, of course, but for loving Jonathan? He couldn't imagine the hundred different ways the betrayal cut her, not only as a husband and lover, but a friend. Jonathan was hers, even if only in memories. He still wasn't sorry for what he felt.

“This is something I'm not going to understand, isn't it,” She said, finally. Alanna raised her eyes, red-rimmed and wary.

George didn't reply.

“I need to know,” Alanna rose, bottle dangling absently from her fingers. He wondered if she knew how important it was to him. “You told me you loved me when I was fifteen. It's almost ten years, now. I'd understand if-” she swallowed hard looking away, “-if time has changed things. I just need to know.”

“Oh, lass,” His heart broke and she was wrapped in his arms before he realized he crossed the floor. George tucked her close and smelled her hair; she always smelled warm, like a baker's oven. “I could never stopped loving you.”

“Have I been gone too often?”

“I miss you every day,” He confessed, “but you haven't done a thing. It isn't -” What it looks like? Except it was. George was cheating on his wife and there was no excuse for it. “It was never about you. I love you.”

She pulled back and crossed her arms, daring him to touch her again. “Fine living changing your palate, Baron Cooper,” She snapped.

“What?” George was aghast, “Lanna, I know I was wrong. I made you a promise and I broke it, but this isn't because I don't love you. You're strong and beautiful and everything I've ever dreamed of having.”

“So why wasn't it enough!” Her eyes snapped brightly with her temper and the fireplace roared purple.

“Because Jon needed more and I couldn't tell him 'no'!” He bellowed, “You're not the only one to have a heart big enough for two!”

And as sudden as it started, the magic was gone from the air and Alanna was quiet. “It was Jon,” She asked, cocking her head. “Really?”

“What do you mean, 'it was Jon?',” George gapped. “Who else – Who did you think it was?”

Alanna blushed. “Well, I couldn't see much other than your bum,” she admitted, “and I wasn't really in the right mind to start asking questions.”

George stared, “Why aren't you angry?”

“Oh, I am,” She nodded. “I'm absolutely livid and you'll be sleeping at your mother's for a month, but -” she shrugged her hair, “- it's Jon.”

Obviously, this was what madness looked like. Trebond was known for it. George always thought the court was being pompous when they called her addled, but after this, he had to agree. His wife's wits were spun. “Yes,” He repeated slowly, “I'm in love with Jon.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, “George,” she explained, as if he were slow, “who isn't?”

Good point. But they weren't cheating on their wives.

“Besides,” Alanna shifted uncomfortably, “he needs you.”

George stared.

“Oh, stop it,” She snapped, slapping him lightly on the jaw. “Close your mouth. I may not be much good with people, but I know Jon and he's been drowning himself in velvet and gold.” She frowned, “You're the only one left who knows what it feels like to be a King. If I knew all he needed was a tumble, I would've sent you down myself.”

“You would have prostituted me for the good of the kingdom,” George asked, intrigued.

“George,” Alanna gave him a crooked smile, “You're not the only one who loves him.”

“I know,” He replied solemnly.

“But,” She held up a hand to stop him from continuing, “You are the only one who can love him and share him, too.” Her eyes were bright, “You've always managed with me.”

George dropped his eyes and nodded. He wished he didn't have to, but Alanna was too important to the world to tuck away. Just like Jonathan.

“Just promise me,” she pleaded meekly, “that you'll always come back to me?”

“Lassie,” George spoke heavily, voice tied in knots “I never left.” He stepped forward, asking silent permission before he kissed her softly, tangling his fingers in her red locks, stroking the tips of her ears adoringly.

“Good,” She whispered against his lips with a twitch of a smile, “because it's bad form for a champion to murder her king. My reputation would never recover.”


End file.
